


the right partner

by onlyeverthus



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyeverthus/pseuds/onlyeverthus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're both just looking for the right partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the right partner

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by rewatching _The First Avenger_ when we had power but no cable after Hurricane Hermine. Sometimes not having internet as a distraction lends itself to productivity...

The drinking hall is noisy and smoky, soldiers relaxing and celebrating and commiserating, and she catches a few looks as she wends her way through the tables. She's a familiar figure, respected by most of the men, so while the looks are appreciative, there are no catcalls, no lewd comments, and she continues to the large table in the back.

This is the loudest group in the place, but he's somewhat removed, sitting quietly with a small smile on his face as he listens to the others carry on. There's a small glass of something at his fingertips, whiskey, perhaps; she knows he's not much of a drinker, knows that the serum made it impossible for him to get drunk, but there's camaraderie in tossing a few back in a bar, and it's nice to see him smiling and enjoying himself.

The men greet her exuberantly, and she smiles, though her eyes are on him. His face had brightened when he saw her, his eyes lighting up, and she can't help the way her smile widens as she asks if she might have a word with him in private.

The men hoot and holler as he pushes to stand, and he waves a hand at them, skirting around the table to follow her from the hall.

It's quieter outside, the night pleasant, and they start to walk, his hands in his pockets, hers at her sides.

"How's the celebration?" she asks.

He chuckles. "I'm just glad to see them all alive and okay."

"That was a very brave thing you did," she murmurs.

"Brave or stupid?"

"The two are not always mutually exclusive."

He laughs again at that, and it's nice to hear him laugh. Nice to see him smile, nice to just _see_ him. She was more afraid than she had even admitted to herself, afraid that he wouldn't come back, that he and the men he'd gone to rescue had all perished at the hands of the enemy.

It's a sobering thought, even now, and she takes a steady breath as they come to a stop in front of a small building. His expression is politely curious, and she gives him a half smile.

"Benefit of being the only female in the camp who's not a secretary or one of your backup dancers, and it's the only place we're guaranteed to not be disturbed."

It seems he can't argue with that, and he follows her inside after the briefest hesitation. Her private quarters aren't very different from those of any other officer on the base: a small desk, round table with two chairs, and a narrow, neatly made bed.

On the desk is a double sided picture frame, one side showing an older couple who he assumes are her parents, and the other side showing her with a young man, maybe a couple of years older than her. A brother, he guesses, though he doesn't know for sure; they've never really talked about anything that didn't have to do with the mission or the war, certainly nothing as personal as family.

Pulling his gaze from the pictures, he notices she's settled into a chair at the table, and he takes the other one, perching almost primly on the edge. He's a little nervous, uncertain why she wanted to talk to him in here, and then she speaks.

"It's quieter in here," she says. "We can talk like civilized people, and nobody can overhear us."

He nods, his hands dropping to clasp in his lap. "What do you want to talk about?"

She's staring at him, her head tipped to the side, red lips parted and one red fingernail idly scratching the surface of the table. She's so beautiful it makes his heart ache.

"I meant what I said," she murmurs. "About you being brave. Yes, it was also foolish, but bravery and foolishness quite often go hand-in-hand. Colonel Phillips wondered why I helped you do it."

"Why did you?"

"Because I have faith in you, Steve. I've had faith in you from the moment we met. You were a hero before you ever took that serum; the serum only enhanced that."

He can feel himself blushing, ducking his head to look down at his lap, and then he hears the sound of her chair scraping back. He looks up in time to see her coming towards him, and then her hands are on his cheeks and she's kissing him, hard and desperate. He's surprised, one hand gripping the edge of the table, and starts to kiss her back as she pulls away.

They stare at each other, her hands still on his face, and his hand moves from the table to tentatively rest on her waist. There's a frozen beat, one tiny crystalline moment, and then she kisses him again, shifting closer to him as his hand settles more deliberately on her waist.

Another beat passes, and he rises to his feet, now standing over her. The kiss breaks, and they stare at each other, his blue eyes meeting her brown ones, admiring every detail of her face. His hand rises to touch her hair, brushing the soft curls with his fingertips, and he can't help feeling awed. He still feels like that scrawny, sickly version of himself sometimes, the one girls always laughed at, the one that always got beat up by boys twice his size because he was an easy target.

She didn't laugh at him. She saw him for who he was, and she still sees him now, behind the muscles grown by the government, behind the enhanced strength and lightning reflexes. She still sees him, and that makes him feel bigger and stronger than any serum.

They take their time removing each other's clothing, and then she pushes him onto the bed to straddle his hips, the springs creaking under their combined weight. He stares up at her in surprise, and she just smiles down at him, brown curls framing the sides of her face. He has no experience with this, and she at least seems to know what she's doing, so he figures the smart thing is to just let her lead the way.

Her hands slide up his stomach, over his chest, and she leans down to kiss him, her breasts heavy and soft on his chest. He lifts one hand to thread his fingers in her hair, and her hand rises to cover his, slowly lowering it to her breast.

"Touch me, Steve," she whispers, her voice low and throaty, and he doesn't need any more invitation than that. He squeezes her breast gently, feeling the weight of it in his hand, the peak of her nipple against his palm, and then moves his hand down to trace her soft curves. She sits up, and his hand slides over her stomach, his eyes roving over her torso.

"You're beautiful," he says softly, reverently, and she smiles.

His eyes fall to the patch of dark hair between her legs, and he can feel her warm on his stomach, can feel just the barest hint of dampness as she shifts on top of him. He's fully aroused, almost achingly so, but he doesn't want to stop his exploration of her body. His fingers drift down her stomach, his eyes stuttering to her face to check that this is okay, even though they're naked, pressed together on this narrow metal cot, even though he knows where this is all going. She just keeps smiling, and leans back slightly, allowing his fingers to move farther down, allowing him to slide his hand between her legs.

The hair there is soft – everything about her is soft – and wet, and his fingers slip easily between her folds. He hears her inhale quietly, and lifts his gaze to her face once more. She's biting her lip, staring down at him with dark, glittering eyes, and when he moves his fingers again, her mouth falls open, her nails pressing into his hip.

Unable to stand it anymore, she shifts backward along his lap, and makes him gasp when she takes him in her hand, angling her body to guide him inside of her. She sinks down slowly, and he groans at how good it feels, how good _she_ feels, warm and soft around him, like something that was made just for him.

Her mouth is open as she settles on top of him once more, and she just sits a moment, feeling him inside of her, thick and perfect. Once upon a time, she was saving herself for marriage, but things changed, and though she had still been saving herself, it had just been for the right man. The right partner.

Finally, she leans forward, resting her hands on his torso, and begins to move, sliding slowly along his length. His hands rise to her hips, fingers pressing into her skin, and all he can do is stare at her, the shape of her mouth, the gentle movement of her breasts, the way her hair flutters as she breathes. He can't move, doesn't feel coordinated enough to match her movements, and he's not even sure how long he can last before he embarrasses himself; part of him prays that his enhanced stamina will help him here. He's listened to the other men talk about their conquests, sharing tips on how to last longer, and he's able to pull himself back from the edge several times.

When they've settled into a good rhythm, and he's slightly more aware of his body, he bends his knees and braces his feet against the mattress. She gasps at the first thrust, her movements slowing as a small furrow appears between her eyebrows, and he stops, worried that he's hurt her, but she shakes her head.

"Don't stop."

Confidence bolstered, he thrusts again, pushing into her over and over, his hands tightly gripping her hips as hers fall to the bed on either side of him. The bed is squeaking loudly now, and part of him wonders dimly if someone walking by outside would be able to hear it, but he's past the point of caring. He just wants to feel her tight around him, wants to keep going until they both find their release.

When he finally allows himself to come, his feet slip on the mattress to slam into the foot of the bed, and with a loud clatter, it flies off to slide across the floor. The bed tips down, and her arms wrap around his neck, holding on tightly and muffling the sounds of her own climax against his shoulder.

After several minutes, when they're able to realize the existence of anything beyond themselves, they both begin to laugh at their current predicament. His feet are braced against the floor, her backside resting against his thighs, and his arms are tight around her waist, while she still clings to his neck.

Carefully, she climbs off of him to stand, and moves to grab a robe from her footlocker as he pulls on his undershorts.

"Sometimes I still forget my own strength," he mutters, staring at the drunken angle of the bed. "I'm sorry."

She laughs and shakes her head. "It's a flimsy bed anyway. Most nights I worry that it might collapse at any moment."

He walks across the small room to retrieve the metal footboard, while she bends to pick up something off the floor, and she's holding two small pieces of metal in her palm when he joins her once more.

"The screw snapped clean in two," she marvels.

"Not sure how to explain that one to maintenance," he replies, raising his eyebrows.

"I'll just say they fell out."

"Not sure if I can fix this," he says, kneeling on the floor and easily lifting the bed with one hand as he positions the footboard against it, peering at the connections underneath it. "How will you sleep tonight?"

"Better than I have in years," she replies, and he turns his head to look up at her, taking in her gentle smile. She holds her hand out to him, and he takes it, standing and moving close to her. She leans into him, resting her head on his chest, and he holds her, closing his eyes as his fingers curl around her hand, holding it to his chest.

Of all the things he thought this experiment would give him, this wouldn't have even made the list, but she's here, small and perfect in his arms, providing warmth that isn't just physical.

They hold each other for a long time, and then realize how late it is. He needs to put his clothes on and return to his barracks, and they reluctantly separate. He uses her footlocker to prop up the foot of the bed, after she assures him that it will do for the night, and then begins to get dressed, using her mirror to check his appearance.

Once he's presentable, she presses something into his palm and gives him a kiss, then moves to check that the coast is clear for him to leave. He slips out, forcing himself to walk calmly to his barracks, and though most of the men have returned and are getting ready for bed, they don't rib him too much about his private meeting with her. Perhaps because they don't think anything more than talking happened, which is fine with him; the fewer people who know the true depth of their relationship, the better.

As he moves to his footlocker to take out his pajamas, he looks at the thing she placed in his hand. He had thought it was a note at first, but he sees now that it's a picture of her, and he smiles.

The next day, it finds a home in his compass, and on long nights when he's away on missions, he takes it out to stare at her, allowing the daydreams to fill his mind. Maybe when the war's over, she'll come with him to New York. They'll get a small apartment in Brooklyn, a much sturdier bed – the corner of his mouth twitches at that – and start a life together. If not New York, then maybe London; he doesn't care, as long as he's with her.

Sometimes, he still remembers the conversation they had in the car on the way to the procedure that changed his life forever. At the time, it had seemed innocuous, a single-topic discussion, but upon reflection, it seems to mean so much more.

_Well, asking a woman to dance always seemed so terrifying. I figured I'd wait._   
_For what?_   
_The right partner._


End file.
